Wind Chimes
by trisanamcgraw
Summary: A drabble a day for the livejournal 31days community. All characters, all pairings, from wind chimes and moonlight madness to the sea, dogs, and frozen watermelons, and a lot about love.
1. wind chimes moved by solar winds

Written for the livejournal community 31days, the June 2006 set. Inspired by Lady Silvamord's lovely Morning Glory (May 2006).

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**June 1: wind chimes moved by solar winds**, feat. Lindhall Reed and Arram Draper

-

"So how exactly do these work?"

Lindhall Reed raised a gray-blonde eyebrow at his new companion. "Did they not have wind chimes in Tyra?"

Arram Draper fixed him with a withering glare. "Of course they did. Contrary to popular belief, we did have artists in that repulsive swampland. But we also had winds to make these" – he jangled the delicate squares of colored glass, held together by fine strands of thread, for emphasis – "make their pretty sounds." He stilled his hand, but the chimes continued to sway as if in an invisible wind, casting rose and turquoise hues on the sand while their sweet ringing drifted through the hot air.

"They're spelled so that they can be moved by solar winds," Lindhall explained, his enthusiasm for even a minor enlightenment apparent. "Or, as you can see here, simply by the power of the sun itself."

"That's all?" Arram snorted. "What's the point, when mages can do the same?" He held his hand before the chimes. Black fire gathered over his palm before leaving his skin to blanket the pieces of glass, until they were obscured by the cloud of his magic.

The chimes shattered in an explosion of tinkling glass. When he had uncovered his eyes, Lindhall burst out laughing.

Arram scowled at him, then tossed back his long hair so that he could look down his long nose at the shorter man. "It just shows how powerful my Gift is. You won't be laughing when I'm a Black Robe."

Lindhall did sober a bit at his friend's words. "I already knew that, you dolt. It's just . . ." Mirth brightened his pale eyes again. "Those were Ozorne's chimes. I can't wait to see how the heir to the Carthak throne reacts when he sees you've destroyed one of his sparkly trinkets."

Arram fixed him with the same contemptuous glare he would place upon a daft seven-year-old. "And you really think that the heir cares about some strung-together pieces of heated sand?"

Lindhall directed the role of idiot back onto him as well as if he had a reflecting charm. "Did you see how cranky he got about his necklace last week? And that didn't even have rubies and emeralds strung along with it. Plus, he probably uses this to scry."

Arram inspected the decimated chimes more closely, and he grew pale beneath his developing tan.

Lindhall grinned complacently. "You had better start perfecting your glass-blowing skills, my friend. Of course, with your luck, you'll end up burning down a wing of the Imperial Palace."

Arram scooped up a fistful of the abundant orange sand and hurled it at the other youth.


	2. in search of me

**June 2: in search of me**, feat. Lady Keladry of Mindelan

-

"You look beautiful," Kel congratulated Lady Yukimi of Queenscove, embracing the plump Yamani woman. Yuki allowed not only the hug but also for her expression to clearly reveal her happiness: with her dark hair set off by a white veil and her cheeks flushed from her first dance as a married woman, she looked more beautiful than she had ever appeared when coyly peeking out from behind a _shukusen_.

"And look at you, Neal," Merric interjected; "you look almost grown up."

Kel gave Neal, looking only a little uncomfortable in a gold-trimmed wine-red tunic and stiff white shirt, a wry grin. "You do look very handsome."

"With your help," he reminded her. "Mithros, before the wedding it was almost as if we were pages again, with you fussing over my collar and such."

Remembering the small fevers she used to experience at such close proximity to her older friend, Kel bit her lip to keep from grinning too widely. "Yes," she answered, "very much the same."

The opening chords of a slow, lingering melody drifted over to them, and Neal offered Kel his hand. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, Keladry?" She took it without thinking, although she was startled; she had assumed that he would spend at least the first five dances with his wife.

As Merric and Yuki, discussing the difference between spring in the Yamani Isles and Tortall, ambled to their seats, Neal clasped Kel to him. For a few moments they simply swayed to the pleasant music. Presently he asked, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Very much," she answered with a smile. "It was a lovely ceremony."

"That it was," he agreed, "even if Yuki's parents had to have their say in certain matters." They shared a laugh. "At any rate, the palace wedding planner must be trembling with excitement, what with all of the mid-war ceremonies sprouting up. Already it's been Lord Raoul in the autumn, Yuki and me in the spring. . . ." He raised his winged brows at her. "Could summer nuptials be far off?"

Kel playfully smacked his shoulder. "Don't count on it."

"Are you sure?" he pressed. "Because I've seen the way you laugh and talk with Dom." He lifted his hand, and Kel turned to see the sergeant, lounged in a seat beside the newlyweds Raoul and Buri, return the greeting. She waved, too, and was rewarded with that charming grin.

Neal waggled his brows a little. "I'll bet that Lalasa has the perfect dark blue cloth to make a dashing wedding coat."

Kel tilted her head to the side to regard him, and she laughed. "Look at you; those matchmaking mothers who so frightened Lord Raoul would be proud. No, Neal. I don't know about Dom, or anyone for that matter – not yet. I'm . . . what do you want to call it." She made a face. "In search of me."

"That's my girl," Neal murmured with a proud grin. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you, Kel."

She smiled slightly and tightened her arms around his shoulders. "I love you too, Meathead."

"No, I'm serious," he protested, albeit with a small laugh; it seemed that not even his dreaded nickname could deter him from enjoying his wedding. "I want to say thank you, for everything."

Kel wondered why tears pricked her eyes; if asked, she would claim that it was from this peculiar role reversal of Neal being serious for once. "You're welcome," she replied around a strangely tight throat.

The last chords of the music faded as the minstrels stilled their instruments. The two slowed as well. Now was the time for Neal to return to his wife. "Just a moment … ?" Kel asked quietly, surprised that she couldn't properly form the question.

His green eyes were warm and gentle. "Of course. Anything for you, Lady Knight." They remained standing in the middle of the room a few moments longer before Neal lightly squeezed her shoulders; this time, with a smile, she let him go. However far her literal and emotional travels took her, she would always carry her piece of him, however small.


	3. touch of moonlight madness

Warning: The following, while it's just playing around with a weird plot bunny, is a bit squicky, so don't read if the idea of an adult-teenager romance offends you (never mind that this was a common marriage situation in medieval times).

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**June 3: touch of moonlight madness**, feat. King Jonathan of Conté

-

His movements calculatedly careful, Jonathan slipped into the palace gardens, replacing the heavy carved door behind him. The few lingering noises that trailed him out of the Great Hall were quickly swallowed by the dense foliage outside.

Once the door was secured, he allowed himself a sigh of relief. He felt the tension tangibly leave his shoulders as the cool night air wove through the threads of his brocade tunic like a particularly skillful set of fingers, massaging his aching muscles. He briefly closed his eyes before reopening them to fully take in the sight of the gardens, the dark shrubbery dappled with the moon's silvery illumination.

What were once pretty and innocuous stalks of flowers appeared now as walls that rose around him on all sides. Their growth, which he knew to be due to decades of care rather than the rapid result of some charm, only pressed more firmly on the ache in his heart at the knowledge and acceptance of years slipped by. A spark of remembered excitement flared in his stomach at the recollection of his onetime freedom to slip into these gardens simply as another unobserved youth – once a refuge, they now constituted his prison.

Suddenly, a glint of copper in the torchlight captured his attention. Like a man entranced, Jonathan followed it with first his eyes and then his footsteps. But his boots crunched loudly over the crisp leaves strewn along the ground, and only the thick hedges stared back.

She was waiting for him at the stone bench from which he had started; with the soundless grace of a feline, she had retraced his steps before he could. The silk of her amethyst dress shimmered in the moonlight, and he briefly wondered how much her mother had told her.

Her hair was soft against his calloused fingers and brighter than that in his memory. Images of shining purple light and flames reflecting off black stone jockeyed in his mind, and he momentarily shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he was met with a pair of sharp hazel-green eyes, a sight that brought him back to reality with the jarring recognition of not only his old love, but also his wife.

It was her mouth that settled him firmly at middle ground: tinged a light shade of red, the lower lip fuller than the upper, with smiles tucked into the corners. He ached to kiss her, to see if he could steal some smiles.

This time she didn't jerk away as he unlaced her bodice. Now he was the one fumbling, but her slender fingers assisted his thicker ones. Whatever promises had been made melted in the moonlight.

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_I didn't intend to squick, but this prompt and this plot bunny just fused together. Also (added June 4), let me address a few people who were nice enough to review right as the chapter went up: Yes, it's Jon/Alianne; any mention of Alanna or Thayet is in his mind. Yes, I know it's squicky, but if you can't experiment (with proper warning attached, of course, which I've done) with such things in fanfiction, where can you? Anyway, as Alianne said, "It's as if all the interesting men were born in my father's generation."_


	4. book of questions

**June 4: book of questions**, feat. Lord Alan of Trebond

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A servant jostled her in her attempt to open the door for the visitor to Trebond, but Alanna of Pirate's Swoop and Olau snapped, more tartly than she had intended, that she could open a door herself. Too late – always too late – she pressed her tongue between her teeth and suppressed a sigh. The poor maid was as old as Coram and had probably dealt enough with Lord Alan's curt remarks. "Thank you," Alanna added, hoping to amend her little outburst, but the woman's eyes were filled with melancholy. It wasn't until Alanna looked over her shoulder that she realized that her attitude hadn't even registered.

The library looked as if it hadn't been disturbed since the death of its owner more than twenty years prior. For the most part, all of the carefully stacked books remained in their spots on the four bookshelves that lined the walls. The only disturbance had occurred in the second shelf on the left: a small ladder leaned against it, with one book hanging on a rung and several strewn over the floor beneath it. Every object was swathed in a thick cover of dust.

"Be careful, lady," the maid cautioned, and it was only her guilt over snapping earlier that prevented Alanna from giving a retort. The woman did have a point, Alanna silently added; she knew full well the circumstances of her father's death, although the servants had refrained from giving her all of the details, more, she suspected, for their comfort than for hers.

She picked her way across the floor with ease, sending up little puffs of dust in particularly dense spots, but she paused upon reaching the ladder and simply stood with her hand resting on the dull brown wood, gazing up its length. Amazing and somewhat confounding that such an innocuous object, now brittle and hung with cobwebs, had been the downfall of Lord Alan of Trebond. _Downfall_ . . . Alanna bit her lip at her unintentional pun. This damned war had her applying gallows humor to every part of her life.

When she had reopened her eyes, she took a step forward, and her foot immediately encountered an obstacle. It was a large, thick tome, its cover turned gray from dirt and dust. Alanna picked it up and wiped off the grime with her sleeve. The leather binding the cover was actually white; while she could imagine that it had once appeared as pristine as snow, the best it now resembled was the color of bone speckled with dirt.

"That was the book that we found beside Lord Alan's . . . beside him," the maid spoke up.

In her cleaning, Alanna's sleeve hovered over a red-brown blotch. She nodded in response to the woman's words, her gaze fixed on that spot. The image of her father's body sprawled on the stone floor, his head surrounded by an expanding pool of blood that sank into the book's white leather, made her eyes burn; she fiercely shook her head and flung open the book.

She had assumed that it was some minutely detailed map of Tortall, but what met her eyes was a winding circle. Closer inspection revealed to her that each ring of the circle contained flowing script detailing names and dates; upon reading a few, she found the common link of Trebond.

Alanna looked more closely at the gold lettering stamped onto the tome's front cover: _A History and Listing of Ancestors of the Trebond Line_. Wondering what her father had been doing with a family tree, Alanna perched on the edge of the heavy desk and flipped through the pages.

The circle concerned the earliest family from which they had all descended: five of the nine children born had survived long enough to marry and bear children. Later pages included charts, with individually decorated boxes connected to one another with spirals and dotted lines that signified a variety of relationships. Exploration through another six pages brought her to a page overrun with bold, slanting writing. Alanna peered at it to determine whose names were in the boxes; she was only slightly surprised to see the names of Lord Alan and Lady Alianne followed by those of herself and Thom.

The writing that covered three-quarters of the page was undeniably her father's. Alanna frowned and brought the book closer to her face so that she could interpret the text that was puzzling in at least its presence, if not also its intent. Her father would never touch a book with a pen, not even to record the date the book was purchased or any such sentimental information; she still recalled clearly the day he had roared at her and Thom for trying to brighten one of his scrolls with colored ink.

Alan had made an addendum to Alianne's box: beneath where it said _b. 400 H.E._ he had written _d. 420 – childbirth._ Between the edge of the page and the box there spiraled the words _**Why Alianne** and not the children?_ Alanna recoiled only a little; she had expected little else from her father. He had written over the first two words countless times, so much so that they were impressed into the next page.

His name had also not been left untouched: _What do I have to do to be a good **father**? How do I make them **understand?**_

The writing beside Thom's name was measured and straight, like stones in a wall:

_Began knight training at palace 429._

_Called wrong name by training master._

Tucked behind the page was a piece of parchment with Duke Gareth's seal. Alanna skimmed the paper and almost burst out laughing; it was the progress report that the duke had called her in during her first year in the palace to speak about because, although he had written to Lord Alan about his son Alan, the lord of Trebond's reply had included inquiries about his son Thom. At the time Alanna had thought that both men eventually reached the conclusion that the other simply didn't pay enough attention the poor Trebond boy to properly remember his name.

She was surprised to see any writing beside the box that read _Alanna of Trebond_, but there were several scrawls, grown more unintelligible as her eyes scanned down the page.

_Has Alianne's determination … bad? Good_

_Sent to convent 429 – right decision? only decision_

_No notes from sisters – good behavior? Not Alanna._ She smiled despite herself.

It was the next line that made her nearly drop the heavy volume:

_Alanna_

She flipped again to the progress report and lifted the first page to read the end of Duke Gareth's letter: _It is my utmost pleasure to inform you of how well Alan's training is proceeding. I hope that such good news may continue to reach you in the futur_e. Indeed, the word _Alan_ had been traced with pen and circled over and over. Alanna hastily turned back to her family's page. Lord Alan's final piece of writing, the letters thin and slanted, was crammed into a margin, as if he had tried to hide it.

_chose her own way, like we knew she would_

_just like her mother_

_will I see her again to tell her?_

_will she see me?_

The words burned in her vision before suddenly blurring and running together; startled, Alanna wiped first at the wet spot on the page and then at her damp cheek, not caring that she had spread the ink to her skin.

After a length of time, she stood up and brushed the dust off her hose. The older woman had abandoned her position in the doorway; with one hand tightly gripping the leather-bound book, Alanna slowly pulled shut the door to the library. She doubted that she would again enter it; she had found what she was looking for and more.

Her children would be intrigued by the brief look at the grandfather they never knew, and if nothing else, she had several entries to add.


	5. a single soul dwelling in two bodies

_I hate to say this since I dislike hearing it from other authors, but because I haven't finished _Trickster's Queen_ I'm probably taking some liberties with canon related to it. Spoilers for TQ, of course, some of which I learned from the Dove/Sheroes; if I got something wrong here, forgive me and call it semi-AU. ;)_

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**June 5: a single soul dwelling in two bodies**, feat. Aly Crow and Taybur Sibigat

-

Dovasary kept her voice light and teasing as she requested Taybur to find her spymistress ("Perhaps you will be treated to a reprise of your cat-and-mouse games"), but her dark, sharp eyes revealed her deep unease. Nawat Crow, wrestling with his newborn triplets (something for which Taybur did not for an instant envy him), lifted his head to direct a concerned glance at the guardsman before a tiny hand yanked his earlobe and his attention downward again.

The search didn't take long, something that caused Taybur a twinge of disappointment. The discovery of pale light flickering from beneath Aly's workroom door drew a wry smile from him, and he strode purposely to the door. He didn't falter when she failed to respond to his heavy knock, but when she still hadn't given any indication of hearing him after he called out her name, he gently pushed open the wooden door.

Once inside, he paused, his brows snapping together in surprise. He hadn't realized from outside the room how harsh the light actually was; the candles had burned down so that they now resembled flames treading the hot liquid wax in their bowls. In their wan light he could perceive the lean shape of Aly crouched on the floor, with at least seven different maps strewn around her. At first Taybur thought that the maps bore dark ink blotches, but as he drew closer he realized that they were darkings – at least twenty of them – sprawled lazily over the thick sheets of parchment. More darkings adorned her neck and wrists like jewelry; a moment earlier he had assumed that she was wearing bangles constructed of shiny obsidian, most likely given to her by her crow mate.

She was slumped against a cushion, but her eyes were, as always, bright and alert. Their light seemed to grow upon recognizing him, and her full lips spread into a grin. "Well, hello there, Taybur."

He inclined his head. "Good evening, Aly. I was sent by the Queen to retrieve you. Everyone is waiting for you in the dining room."

She put a hand to her forehead in an overdramatic motion; surprisingly, the darkings didn't quiver at the sudden movement. "Dear me, I am feeling a bit faint. I'll have to apologize for postponing everyone's dinner."

"Queen Dovasary requested that I bring you in for dessert," he corrected quietly.

Her hazel eyes didn't falter; to his surprise, she laughed, though it sounded strained. "This work of mine!" she exclaimed, pushing herself to her feet with a hand that shook. His mouth went dry. Never in all of their interactions, their playful but always loaded pursuits and evasions, had he seen her shake; neither when he had brought Dunevon's frail corpse from the child king's ruined ship.

She continued jovially, "A spymaster's work requires total attention and commitment. Little things like food can't deter me from my, literally, god-granted job."

He frowned. "Now that you mention it, you've missed all of the meals that I have attended." _And I'll bet that the ones I haven't been at you haven't either. _He drew her to him, noting how cold her fingers were.

"Taybur, I was kidding," she chided gently before fluttering her eyelashes at him. "However, I am terribly flattered that you're worried about me."

"Stop," he ordered sternly. At such close proximity he could see the fine lines that already creased her soft skin, the eyes rimmed with red and smudged with purple. "Aly, you're making yourself unwell with all of this attention to your work."

Her eyes had hardened, but her grin remained. "Taybur," she said, parroting the slow, deliberate tone of his voice, "as spymistress I have to have eyes and ears everywhere and be available to receive all of the necessary information."

"As I understand it, you were able to do that during the rebellion while monitoring and leading several other groups," he retorted, remembering the small darking he had discovered in Dunevon's bedchamber.

"You don't know how I managed everything," she shot back; her tone was sliding away from its former jocularity.

"No, I don't." Impulsively, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over a scab on her ever-protruding lower lip. Recognition flashed in his eyes; to her credit, she made no reaction as he shoved aside her long red hair. Thin white scars crossed over her earlobe; she bore the same marks on the other ear.

Ysul had explained to Taybur the creation of darkings as the Tortallan basilisk had imparted to him. They had been formed from the blood of an enemy of Tortall and so acted as extensions of him: when created from the blood of corresponding spots on his body, they had literally acted as his eyes and ears. Due to their creator's death and their years in the Realms of the Gods, however, the original creatures had developed free thinking and therefore separated themselves from of his control.

_The original creatures_ . . . He recalled being introduced to only about ten of these dark blobs. Taybur grabbed Aly's wrist; for the first time since he had entered the room, her face darkened, and she tugged her arm away. He twisted her arm behind her enough to immobilize her – she panted in frustration – and lifted her wrist to his face. The darkings clung to her skin like leeches, but he pried them off; they slithered away to nest in her hair, but Aly didn't notice. Her eyes, appearing almost entirely green, were fixed on the same spot his were.

"Aly," he breathed. He was so surprised that he loosened his grip on her wrist. She jerked away from him, the fingers of her other hand instinctively covering the spidery scars on her wrist.

"You don't understand everything that I have to do," she snapped at his calm but accusatory gaze. The darkings slipped themselves around her thin wrist again, crooning soothingly. "My work requires constant surveillance –"

"But there are safe ways to go about spying," he interrupted. She had enough wherewithal to fix him with an impudent look, and he sighed. "Safer," he corrected himself. "_This_ is not healthy."

"But . . . I have to be _everywhere_," she whispered, her voice cracking on her last word.

"Then be with your husband, Aly," he gently told her. "With your children."

She looked up at him with large, liquid eyes, and, slowly, her lower lip began to tremble. He had no words to offer; all he could do was enfold her in his arms and will his body not to adopt her trembling.

---

_Do I understand the concept of darkings correctly? I seem to remember from ITRotG that Ozorne cut his ears and lips, if not also other places, and formed the blood from each spot into a specific set of darkings. That way, they were his eyes and ears. If I'm wrong/missing something, please let me know._


	6. the world is mine

**June 6: the world is mine**, feat. Sarralyn Salmalín

-

Numair Salmalín strode down the hallway, his long nose buried in the stack of notes he had just received containing new insight into the gruesomely fascinating Scanran killing machines, but a flash of movement lifted his eyes from the paper.

The door to Sarralyn's room was slightly ajar, but he knocked out of propriety. "Come in, da," she called; he knew before he pushed open the door that she had rolled her eyes at him. Sometimes she so resembled her mother in the way that she laughed at his instinctual manners.

Sarralyn was admiring herself in the mirror, absently piling her dark curls on top of her head and letting them drop to her shoulders, over and over. Numair actually shoved his notes (carefully) beneath one arm and took a few moments to gaze at her with fatherly pride.

He remembered – how could he forget? – the nine months, with the added terror of a shapeshifting baby piled on top of the challenge that neither he nor Daine thought they would ever be ready to face, but his fondest memories were after Sarralyn's birth and naming ceremony. Upon moving into their larger suite of rooms at the palace, Daine had purchased a wooden rocking chair, too simple to have been spelled for any special purpose. At his mild confusion, she had explained, her voice slipping back into the lilting mountain-town softness that evoked memories of fevers and healing as well as inane conversations about horsetails, "My ma had one when I was a babe." That settled the issue.

Ironically, it had been he who had spent hours in the rocking chair, entirely by choice: he couldn't seem to get enough of bouncing his baby girl (and later her brother) on his long legs or cradling the soft body to his chest, hardly daring to breathe for fear of disturbing the dozing child. It had been in that chair that Numair had first awed baby Sarralyn with his magic; just a puff of black mist that dissolved into sparkles when captured by her chubby hands. Sarralyn had grinned toothlessly up at him and declared, "Mine." He was so astonished that he nearly dropped her; when he had recovered, he whooped joyfully, and, amazingly, she joined in, crying out in glee and clapping her hands together.

"Yes, da?" Sarralyn prompted, jolting him from his memory.

He shook his head, sending some of his hair loose from its horsetail, as he came over and briefly rested one large hand on her shoulder. "Nothing, sweetheart. You're just growing into a beautiful young woman, that's all." He gave her a small peck on the cheek and left the room, pulling the door shut with one hand while retrieving his notes from his robes with the other.

Sarralyn inspected her reflection with a critical eye. "Beautiful . . ." she repeated. She fingered her long nose, and beneath her fingers crooked itself. Her skin lightened so that it resembled less her father's swarthy Tyran features and more the golden-brown of a K'mir. Her hair darkened to pitch black and straightened itself a bit, framing perfectly hazel eyes and full red lips.

The image of her undeniably beautiful aunt didn't occupy her for long, however. Presently thoughts of another dark-haired ruler came to her. She broadened her shoulders and flattened her breasts, though at the same time she sent new muscles rippling over her arms and chest. Her black hair withdrew into her head, only to pop out again along her jaw. The steady hazel of her eyes brightened to an astonishing blue. Now _this_ was more interesting.

The portraits that she'd studied in the east wing of the palace flitted through her mind like pages from a book, and she rushed to keep up with her speeding thoughts. She thinned out the jaw, filled out the mouth, and touched the hair with brown, all the while adding inches until she towered over the maiden-sized mirror. She recalled the story her mother had, with not a little bit of awe, passed down to her about the famously short Lioness dueling against the six-foot duke of Conté, and she couldn't help but grin; Roger smiled nefariously back, though all she could see in the mirror was his mouth.

Yes, she decided, much too tall. In a flash she was five-foot-three again; her brown-black hair turned entirely chestnut and began flowing down her shoulders in thick waves. Her skin bleached itself to an entirely milky-white color; her hands turned small-boned and delicate, accustomed to wielding nothing heavier than a soup spoon. She interestedly examined the smooth, uncalloused fingers; it occurred to her that she had yet to encounter a woman in Tortall, even the Queen, who did not bear such toughened skin. Her breasts strained against a shirt fitted for someone with more modest curves.

Just for the hell of it, she decided to try an image she hadn't seen in the palace at Corus. This one would be more difficult since she couldn't just assume the last form this man had occupied without imprisoning herself in a life of steel feathers and the gods-awful stench of fear and war. Of course, there were enough relics and such of him that she had an accurate image of him in her mind's eye.

She thinned her chestnut hair but kept its color; she watched with curiosity as her eyes lightened to a pale amber. Her white skin flashed like lightning before assuming a dark hue that only long hours in the sun could grant.

She reflected that the majority of her transformation wasn't complete since she had not a stitch of gold or jewelry on her person. She rather resembled a peasant in her simple tunic and hose, but the natural power and arrogance was firmly ingrained. She stared back at her image with a look of bored disgust; then suddenly she opened Ozorne Tasikhe's mouth wide in a garish grin.

With a contented sigh, she shrugged her shoulders, and the late Emperor Mage's features melted off her like candle wax. The figure that stared back possessed Daine's smoky curls and Numair's long nose, but the eyes remained amber and catlike, the skin golden-brown, and the mouth was Roger's, red and full – or was it Delia's?

This time her inspection held a smile at the end, and one word: "Mine."


	7. numbers game

Yep, it's another Jon/Aly (this plot bunny refuses to die; in fact, I'm warming to it very quickly), and nowhere near as vague as the previous one, so count this as your warning.

_It seemed that Aly had enjoyed her month's stay with her Corus relatives._ – Trickster's Choice

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**June 7: numbers game**, feat. King Jonathan of Conté and Aly Cooper

-

A delicate knock startled Jonathan from the admittedly ironic pleas from the fief of Rich Cafferey. Alianne Cooper leaned casually against the doorway of his office, one arm supporting her lithe body, the other running along the wood frame. Whatever style of dress the newest university fashion dictated, as well as what he knew to be a fairly rich figure, were dwarfed by a dark brown cloak, spelled against unexpected spring rains.

"You look as if you're about to depart," he commented unnecessarily, feeling beneath his breastbone a tightening that he couldn't begin to explain.

Aly's convivial green-hazel eyes seemed to reflect none of his unease. "Well, I wasn't about to leave without saying my proper good-byes." She sauntered over to his desk; he replaced his pen in the inkwell but only stared at her. "A month was far too short a period of time," she murmured as she climbed into his lap and ran her fingers through his short black hair.

Reflexively he checked over her shoulder that his door was shut and bolted; she had taken care of both. Allowing his muscles to release some of their tension, he rubbed his hands up and down the heavy material of her cloak before deciding that the garment was in his way and undoing the clasp at her throat.

Aly helped him by shrugging her hood off; waves of sapphire-blue hair tumbled over her shoulders. "Do you like it?" she asked, giving her head a little shake so that the waves gleamed like ocean water.

He twined some strands, like the finest dyed silk, around one finger. "It's not a very subtle statement."

Her full mouth opened wide in a grin. "What makes you think it's for you?" she teased; at the surprise that flitted across his features, she laughed and kissed him gently. "Of course it's for you," she whispered, "but I can use the other university students and their silly potions as my excuse."

"Your mother will have a heart attack," he commented softly, still captivated by the shimmer of her thick hair.

"Let's not talk about my mother," she murmured, leaning her head closer to his. He kissed her hungrily, his hands going to her back to support her. She moaned prettily and tightened her grip on the back of his neck. Her other hand grasped at his desk for balance, dislodging some of his papers.

Finally they drew back, panting. With her wide green eyes and swollen mouth, she looked more beautiful even than she had in the palace gardens on that first night that he surprised both of them. "Ask me to stay," she whispered.

He sighed deeply and, placing one hand on either of her hips, lifted her off him. "That I cannot do, Alianne."

She made a face to cover her deeper displeasure at being forcibly pushed away and leaned against his desk. "You sound like my da."

More than ever his eyes resembled gems, hard and impassive. "I'm the same age as your father."

Aly placed a long-fingered hand on his cheek. "But it's not the same. You're not him, Jon." He didn't flinch as he had the first time she had addressed him so intimately, but it still made something in his stomach turn uncomfortably.

Aly dropped her hand, and they remained in awkward silence for several moments until she, striving for a light tone, inquired, "What is it that had you so engrossed before I tore your attention away?"

Jon fumbled through the sheaf of papers that had been disturbed before withdrawing the one for which he had been pondering a civil reply. "Fief Rich Cafferey claims to have suffered great losses in the volume of its crops and weapons in the last year, but it seems to forget the war that we are currently waging." He bit the inside of his cheek before he could embark on the same weary rant he had subjected Gary to that morning. He didn't want to discuss Crown matters with Aly.

"You have to admit that the name, with those circumstances, has some humor," Aly said. "But the reports to be made, and the never-ending follow-ups. . . . How tiresome." It first made him laugh, then sobered him as quickly as a slap to the face, to think that he had echoed much the same sentiments at her age (_at her age_ . . .).

Aly was chattering on, "If you want to talk interesting numbers, there's code-breaking, like I did for Grandda while I was here. But that too gets tedious quickly. What I would love is to be in the field actually _spying_ – leading groups in sabotage and subterfuge."

She was smiling at her own poetry, but he cut in, more brusquely than he had intended, "Absolutely not."

Her eyebrows rose slowly, which was almost worse than the surge of temper he remembered from her mother when they got into arguments. "Excuse me?"

"I won't have you in that degree of danger," Jonathan said, stroking her hip. "It's not where I want you to be."

Her eyes brought to mind a particularly ugly storm he had witnessed one time he had visited Pirate's Swoop. "I'm not going to follow what you want with a sigh and a curtsy."

"Wrong, youngling." He grimaced at the word he had allowed to slip by but pressed on. "I'm the king. And, more importantly, I care about you, Aly."

Aly shoved herself off the desk, grabbing her cloak from where it was pooled on the floor; she muttered something under her breath that he was glad not to hear. Upon straightening, she snapped, "I was right; you're not my da. _He_ would let me do what I want with my life. He wouldn't force me to be someone I'm not."

His eyes shot up to hers, and he wondered for the millionth time how much research into his younger years she had made before taking the steps to ensnare him.

She swept out of his office without so much as a goodbye, her blue hair bouncing up and down before she replaced her hood with a flick of her wrists.

With an unkingly growl of frustration, Jonathan shoved the Rich Cafferey letter aside and raked his fingers through his hair. He was too old for this.


	8. love me, love my dog

**June 8: love me, love my dog**, feat. Raoul and Buri of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak

-

"Eat your cake dear," Buri said, raising the dessert to Raoul's mouth.

Her new husband fixed her with a look of mock incredulity, but there remained the good-natured twinkle in his dark eyes. "For one thing, _beloved_, I am an old man, not a child that needs to be fed. For another, I didn't let you push cake into my face at our wedding, so there should be no expectation that I would allow you to do so at this one."

"For one, an old man requires as much babying, if not more, than a child," Buri retorted, licking the frosting off her fingers. "For another, you didn't seem to mind eating it on our wedding night."

He grinned charmingly and slung an arm around the back of her chair. "If you can find us a private room, I may be tempted to change my mind."

She rolled her eyes at Dom, sitting beside them, whose shadow of a grin belied his inattention to their conversation, and straightened so that she could get a better look at Sir Nealan dancing with his Yamani wife. Raoul played with the ends of her hair for several silent moments before commenting in a quiet voice, "There's Lady Eva of Maren; at Aunt's party she tried to set me up with the lady's daughter. If you like brown eyes, Dom," he directed toward his sergeant, "the daughter is attractive."

"And what made you say no to the pretty young thing?" Buri asked dryly.

"I prefer women with a strong will," he answered, "or, at the least, a will. Besides, I had my mind on other things." She smiled somewhat smugly and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Oh, and there's Lady Gwen of Blue Harbor." Raoul subtly nodded in the lady's direction. "I sometimes wonder if she churned out girls simply to have as many suitable matches for Goldenlake as possible. No, I'm not flattering myself," he said at Buri's incredulous laugh. "I couldn't begin to recite the list of names of the women – girls, some of them – that she shoved at me. I felt sorrier for the girls, who probably wanted only to be playing with the family dogs." His expression turned thoughtful. "Excellent hounds."

" 'Love my dogs, love me,'" Buri commented wickedly.

"Lady Gwen always did contend that Blue Harbor and Goldenlake would make a wonderful match, if only for the flag colors." Raoul grimaced. "Remind me why it is that we're here?"

Buri smacked his big hand, but he caught her fingers in his. Refusing to be distracted, she replied, "Because Neal is Kel's best friend. You know, for one who claims not to be a child, you're acting quite young for your age."

"I could not have said it better." Wyldon of Cavall, clad in a dark gray, albeit skillfully embroidered, tunic, drew up a seat beside theirs.

"Speaking of a man who loves his dogs," Raoul said with a nod toward their new guest. "Cavall."

The former training master gave no indication of the desire to expound on Raoul's words, only, "Goldenlake." He inclined his head toward Buri. "Commander Tourakom."

"I'm neither of those anymore, Lord Wyldon," she commented with a wry grin.

He pursed his lips. "Quite true. Then may I address you as Buriram?"

She smiled. "How about Buri?"

His lips actually curved upwards. "Good."

"You should conserve those smiles, Cavall," Raoul said. "You'll be needing them when you give Neal your congratulatory speech."

To his credit, Wyldon raised his eyebrows only a fraction of an inch. "I'm afraid that I would suffer such a gross lapse in judgment only under the influence of strong drink – many strong drinks."

"Then I would have the pleasure of returning the many favors you paid me in my young years at celebrations such as these," Raoul said with a crooked smile.

Wyldon watched Neal dance with Kel, his hands fluttering on her elbows as he spoke animatedly. "I can honestly say that I never imagined that Nealan would be the first of his year, or of those around him, to get married. Agewise, yes, he was ahead of them all, but in terms of maturity he often came in near the end of the group."

"See, Cavall here actually knew Neal," Raoul said to Buri. "It makes sense for him to be here, but why us?"

"Because Neal and Yuki came to our wedding," Buri retorted.

Raoul waved a hand dismissively. "He's a lovesick lad; he'll do whatever his sweetheart tells him to."

"I can think of at least one person who could benefit from that wisdom," Buri said pointedly.

Raoul laughed shortly and threaded his fingers through her unbound hair. "I like it when you wear your hair down," he commented.

"Don't change the subject," she said, though a smile touched her lips.

Raoul grinned at Wyldon. "Look at what I've been missing all these years. Could you imagine what a hideous, miserable death I would have come to if I hadn't discovered the lovely bond of marriage?" Buri pretended to glare, but she didn't protest as he drew her close with a murmur and a kiss.

"You remind me of my daughter and my squire," the older man informed them dispassionately.

Raoul drew back to raise an eyebrow. "Kel's friend, right?"

"Yes, the Jesslaw lad. It seems that my daughter Margarry has taken a liking to him. I had the displeasure of finding them carrying on in the gardens." He grimaced as if he had taken a gulp of bad wine.

Raoul clapped him on the shoulder. "Just wait, Cavall – maybe you'll get lucky and be able to attend yet another wedding." As Wyldon's frown deepened and he murmured something in reply, Raoul muttered to Buri, "Hopefully the boy's not in it just for the dogs." She smacked his arm hard.

"On that note," she announced, getting to her feet, "we should be leaving." She folded another piece of cake into a napkin, prompting Dom to tease, "In search of a private room, hmm?"

"Watch out for Lady Gwen," Raoul retorted with a joking shove to Dom's shoulder, "unless, of course, you are looking for that special someone. Her daughters must all be about your age." He grinned at Dom's shudder. "You could have the pick of the litter."

"Stop," Buri mock-scolded as they walked away, leaving Dom and Wyldon.

Wyldon gazed coolly over the two empty chairs at the sergeant. "You are Neal's cousin, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Dom replied, wondering why he felt as if he were being quizzed. "Meathead and I are quite close – scarily so."

Wyldon's forbidding face relaxed slightly in a rare show of humor. "Then perhaps I am too quick in offering my condolences. Sergeant," he said with a curt nod as he rose from his chair.

"Sir," Dom replied. His eyes went back to Kel and Neal dancing; he raised a hand in greeting when they looked his way. His ears did pick up, however, Wyldon's murmur as he shuffled through the crowd: "Meathead . . ."


End file.
